Over a year ago I published a post titled: “What Makes You Happy?” I had asked people what made them smile and compiled their answers into a single post. At the time it was so beautiful to see paragraphs of the good things in life and knowing that everything mentioned is special to someone. I knew that even if I didn’t have a small patch of happiness of my own like those people, reading about it was enough. Looking back all this time later it saddens me that the magic I once felt in the post doesn’t exist anymore.
Recently my therapist asked me what made me happy, or at least what made me smile. A simple question that obviously shouldn’t have left me as stumped as it did. I tripped along my words in confusion until I found a reasonable answer: I said that reading makes me happy. Which was a lie. A couple years ago, whenever I would read, it would transport me to the world the author created, holding me hostage until the last page. Today, they do nothing for me. In fact, I only responded with reading out of habit. Isn’t it pathetic that I only ever had one hobby, and even that I can’t stand?
Essentially, I don’t have a happy place. Nowhere to hide inside my mind or even outside it. I don’t know if I ever will find one, and if I do, if it will change everything about me that makes me so sad. Sometimes, I don’t think I can wait.